Page 23 of So Far Gone

As he watched Kinnick and the kids disappear through the Rampart gate, it occurred to Chuck Littlefield, listening to his

pickup rattle down the hill, that he might have made a mistake. He was prone to rash, dramatic gestures like this, when a

more patient strategy was often the wiser course. Ah well. Nothing to be done about it now. Recalling the months he’d spent

playing poker at the tribal casinos near the Spokane airport, Chuck thought: Yep. I’m pot-committed now .

So, he stood calmly in the dirt yard of the Rampart, at the point of an equilateral triangle, Pastor Gallen to his left, the

Bible school teacher to his right, the Glock tucked into his waistband in back, beneath his shirt. The pastor said, “Sister

Charlotte, why don’t you take the kids back into the chapel and finish their afternoon lessons.”

She nodded and, without a word, walked back toward the open door, where three wide-eyed kids were peering out.

“Should probably keep them in there a while, too,” Chuck added helpfully. He tried to give a friendly smile to Pastor Gallen,

who nodded evenly. For the moment, anyway, they seemed to have the same interest. Keeping everything calm.

Sister Charlotte ushered the kids back inside.

When the door closed, Chuck turned back to Pastor Gallen. “Just so you know, I’m hoping to not shoot anyone today.”

“And yet you came here with a gun,” the pastor said.

“Well, I didn’t want to be the only girl at the party not in a dress.”

“I think you have the wrong idea about our church, Mr.—”

“Littlefield. Chuck Littlefield. And no, Pastor, I don’t think I do.”

A truck was coming back up the drive, and at first Chuck assumed it was his. “No, no,” he muttered to himself, “what are you

doing, Rhys?” But it was a different pickup, an older Ford, that rolled through the open stock gate. From the other direction,

the whine of the ATV was coming closer, too.

“So. How do you suggest we handle this?” Chuck asked.

“I assumed you had something planned,” the pastor said, and then he smiled and muttered what sounded like a short prayer.

“Yeah, not so much. How about I promise not to shoot anyone, and you keep your guys coolheaded? Then maybe we can talk this

over like normal, rational people, and afterward, you can run me back to town?”

“Run you back to town,” Pastor Gallen said unsurely.

“Because, I’d imagine,” Chuck continued, “the last thing either of us wants is a gunfight between your goose-stepping dipshits

and a former police officer.”

“I see.” The pastor looked him up and down. “Sometimes these things can get...” He didn’t finish, though, because the Ford

pickup parked in a swirl of dust, and a young, white man in a ball cap hopped out. He wore a handgun holstered to a utility

belt, tied low on his leg, like someone who had seen too many westerns. He seemed to sense that something was off, and he

looked from Pastor Gallen to Chuck and back.

“Everything okay, Pastor?”

Chuck answered for him: “Everything’s fine. We were just talking about having a cup of tea. Do you like tea?”

“I’m more a coffee drinker.” The man kept staring at Pastor Gallen. He cocked his head, as if waiting for some signal.

Chuck could hear the ATV getting closer, too. Suddenly, this whole thing seemed unwise. Maybe insane. He patted his pocket

for his cell phone and realized he’d left it in the truck. Shit! Okay, that was definitely not smart.

The red, four-wheeled ATV pulled through the gate and parked at an angle near the pastor’s back door. A heavyset bald man

in camouflage—no helmet—turned the key and climbed off the rig. He wore a Kevlar vest and had what looked like a .223 Remington

assault-style rifle slung over his left shoulder, resting on his broad back. Hung at his waist were a field belt with pouches

for ammunition and a holstered, snapped pistol.

“What’s going on here?”

The man with the ball cap said to the bald one, “Wait, were we training in full field-dress today? Nobody told me—”

“Brother Dean,” Pastor Gallen interrupted, speaking to the bald man with the rifle. “This is Chuck Littlefield. He’s a police

officer.”

“ Retired police officer,” Chuck said.

“He came with Shane’s father in-law to get the children.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed and his head turned slowly. “Where are they?”

“Rhys just left with his grandkids,” Chuck said.

“That guy lied about me in the newspaper,” Dean told the pastor. “Ruined my reputation. Cost me the county commissioner seat.

I didn’t realize that was him yesterday.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Chuck said. “All I know is that the kids’ mother left instructions that she wanted Kinnick

to watch her kids while she was gone, and you guys beat him up for it.”

Dean muttered something, and started for what was apparently his pickup, a black Dodge Ram with a Gadsden flag in back and

an Army of the Lord sticker on the tailgate. It was parked with the other vehicles between the house and the chapel.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Chuck said, but Dean just kept walking.

“I’m serious,” Chuck said, and he pulled the Glock from his waistband, spread his legs, flipped the safety, took aim across

the yard, and shot the right rear tire of Dean’s truck. The gunshot echoed in the high Rampart fence, the tire deflating with

a hiss. Chuck was glad Dean had such big tires on his truck, and that he’d hit one on the first try. It would’ve been embarrassing

to have to take two shots. Or to have to get closer.

Dean stopped dead in his tracks. His hand went to his gun belt and his head spun in anger.

“I’m serious,” Chuck said.

“Let’s all calm down,” Pastor Gallen said. “Dean! Mr. Littlefield!”

“I’ll pay for any tires I ruin today,” Chuck said. “But no one is going after those kids.”

Brother Dean stood stock-still between Chuck and his disabled pickup, breathing deeply, seeming to consider his next move.

Chuck kept both hands on his gun, which was pointed down at the ground, but in Dean’s general direction.

“Brother Dean—” Pastor Gallen spoke evenly. “Let’s not let this get out of hand.”

“Dean,” the ball cap man said helpfully. “We can take my truck.”

Chuck turned and aimed his gun at the front tire of the Ford pickup. “No. We’re not taking any trucks, Ball Cap. Like I said,

we’re all gonna just sit right here while those kids get down the road a bit with their grandfather.”

To his right, Chuck saw Dean’s hand still on his gun belt. To his left, he saw the ball cap man pull his own pistol from its

holster and point it at Chuck. “Don’t you fuckin’ shoot my tire!” Then Ball Cap glanced over to Pastor Gallen. “Sorry for

my language, Pastor.”

“Please, both of you... everyone... please.” The pastor had his hands out and took a step toward them. “We’re all going

to put our guns away now. Matthew?”

“Not till he does!”

“Put your gun away and I’ll lower mine,” Chuck said.

“Those are brand-new Toyo Open Ranges!” Ball Cap Matthew said. “Don’t you fuckin’ shoot my new tire!”

“Brother Matthew, please—” The pastor, still talking in his calming voice, walked toward the ball cap man.

“I said I’m sorry for the language, Pastor! But I swear—if he shoots my tire—”

Chuck felt a tug at his side in the same moment he heard the crack of the gunshot.

He was spun by the hip, fell, and cried out, squeezing off a round that raised a puff of dirt between him and the truck. From

the ground, Chuck twisted his body to return fire, but Ball Cap had tossed his weapon to the ground and thrown his hands straight

into the air. “Oh shit! Oh shit! It just went off!”

Chuck hesitated—he couldn’t shoot the kid, much as he wanted to—and then he rolled onto his back, to see if Dean had pulled

his gun, but the big man was standing in the same place, rifle still strapped to his back, hand still on his gun belt, staring

coolly at Chuck on the ground.

The pain hit then: a pulsing knife through flesh and bone, the whole left side of his pelvis on fire. Below the waistband

of his pants, he could see the blossoming of scarlet-black blood. Of all the ironies—after his careful instructions to Kinnick

about where to shoot someone, Chuck had been shot squarely in his left front pants pocket. And he’d dropped like a stone,

just like he’d predicted. If it hit the femoral artery—

The pastor reached him, crouched down, one hand gently on Chuck’s wounded left side, another on his right arm. He asked quietly,

“Can I take this, Chuck? Let’s not have anyone else hurt.”

Chuck let go of his tight grip on the handgun. “Okay,” he said, grimacing in pain. The pastor took the Glock, expertly set

the safety, and removed the clip in two smooth motions. He placed the gun and clip gently on the dirt. Then he turned to Chuck.

“Okay, I’m going to look at your wound now. Don’t worry. I was an army medic.” He turned to Dean. “Brother Dean. Call 9-1-1.

Tell them we have an accidental gunshot wound out here.”

Accidental? Chuck opened his mouth to object, but a cry came out instead, and the pastor just kept giving orders, this time to Ball Cap,

whose hands were still in the air.

“Matthew, leave your gun right where it is, do not touch it, I repeat, do not touch it, go inside, and in the kitchen, under

the sink, you’ll find a first aid kit. Also grab some towels and give me your belt.”

Both men just stared.

“Go!” The pastor raised his voice for the first time.

Dean pulled out his phone as Matthew ran toward the house.

“Lord God,” the pastor said quietly, “be with thy servant as I minister and console mine brother here, and lead him to You,

Christ Jesus, even as You guide my hands and sustain us both through this troubling time.”

“Amen,” Chuck muttered. He was hit with another pulsing wave of pain, made a groaning, weeping sound, leaned back in the dirt,

and had to give in to the pain for a moment, closing his eyes tight.

“Bleeding’s not too bad. He missed the artery,” Pastor Gallen said. “I think you’re going to be okay. How’s the pain?”

“Waves,” Chuck said through gritted teeth. “Not good.”